Take the plunge with me
Answer to the irrevocable calling that is this moment
Maybe in comparison the fear you might have if you were to jump off a cliff bungee jumping.
For this we won't have harnesses
Only flesh embodied, skin caressed with the warmth of the blankets and each other.
Swim with me in this forbidden pool
The night is young and the taste of white wine heavy on your tongue

There is a moment between the cusp of darkness, and the rise of the morning sun
Magic
As the colors of a new day creep forth
The fire crackles as the hot embers burn
Emitting enough heat that I am not cold as I sit here
Soon you return to me
The bench shifts under our weight
You don't say anything for a moment
Allowing the silence take us forward into a new day
We watch the sun slowly creeping
Turning to me, the orange-red of the fire catching the whites of your eyes, bathing them with the soft glow.
I catch you smile and I can't help but laugh
A strange thing us sharing this moment
I am sure you think it's strange too
"Quite beautiful", you say with absolute precision
I tell myself not to read into it
Looking at you, it's hard to not see the attraction
Your features are very warm, your eyes scrunch up like mine when you smile
I think you must know that you're handsome
How could you not?
The sky is a brilliant red now
Glowing off the backdrop of darkness.
The fire seems pointless now, since the sky has burst into flames
Maybe it too looks up in awe and wonder
Welcoming the light of a new day

Your hand finds it's way to rest a top mine,
The instant contact startles me
I feel myself blushing
Your eyes are filled with fire now
A deep burning that I couldn't see before
We sit there silently in the moment
As the morning comes alive.

~

A playful sun
  peeks over
   a slumbering
  horizon,
     tickling the
   dawn with
      daffodil giggles
  and flirtatious
   touches,
    awaking the
      new day
         with a smile

Just as I do
  when opening
    my eyes
     to see this
     same cheerful
   sunrise glowing
      through
   our window,
      illuminating
        my beautiful
          new day
            *that is you

My pen is untrained
Uncultured
And uncouth.
If you came to read ballet
You'll be sorely disappointed.
It's more the dance
Of a young colt
Still trying to find her feet
Moving to a staccato rhythm.
No mellifluous flow
But a drum
With a dodgy beat

A long forgotten art,  needed to reinvent it from the days past,
making a clay ***, the size of my heart, where everything started,
with my bare hands; I felt like a man in the primeval times.
The act but brought a sense of satisfaction, it seemed like a ritual
with therapeutic effects,but couldn't delineate what it was.
Was the red clay *** in my hand, a yearning, in symbolic form?

Was I trying to capture the elusive meaning of  life, in a way wrong?
life throws questions after questions at one, not wanting any answers!
And then one stumbles upon symbols, morphed in the depth of emotions,
with these forms, answering to the enigmas of life is done with ease.

A vessel perfect, it seemed to collect one's tears,wasting not even a drop
on the pool of tears, reflects my face, than any of the surfaces  before,
why then, her face too floats along with mine,  out of nowhere?
a nowhere called past,which never goes anywhere, even if charms are tried.

I once wrote about the chrystal stream
Where poets wrote and young lovers dreamed
Of the beautiful years to come
But the chrystal stream became a fetid place
Of sewage and industrial waste
And so the poets no longer wrote
And young lovers no longer dreamed
Of beautiful years to come
But now I sit beside a chrystal bay
The sun forming diamonds on rippling waves
Bird song sounding in my ears
Peace washing away years of stress and fear
This now is the place where poets write
Now the place where young lovers can dream
Of beautiful years to come
Tranquil here is the early morn
With the rising sun reborn
This now the place to sit and think
Take up the pen make bold the ink
But I'll never forget that chrystal stream
Where poets once wrote and young lovers once dreamed
Of the beautiful years to come

Memories long past. Dreams yet to be fulfilled

(The original chrystal stream poem)

No More The Chrystal Stream

We search once more for the chrystal stream
Where poets once wrote and young lovers once dreamed
Of the beautiful years to come

But no more now is the chrystal stream
Where poets wrote and lovers dreamed
Of beautiful years to come

The chrystal stream now a fetid place
Of sewage and industrial waste
The hedgerows long ripped out and gone
Once green fields now barren ground
What legacy do we leave for our unborn sons
Now the beautiful years have gone

But we poets still can sit and dream
And write of things that might have been
In our minds we still see the chrystal stream
And dream of the beautiful years to come